


Almost Like Christmas

by Anonymous



Category: Alles was zählt
Genre: Absent Parents, Christmas, Gen, Loneliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2019-03-02 22:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13327560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Today is Christmas,” the woman says. “Will you celebrate with someone?”He and his feet are almost out of the room. The question is unexpected. It distantly hurts. Somewhere under all that dirty snow, he’s stomped on over the years.“My daughters don’t care about me.” It’s so easy to tell her the truth. Even easier to add as an afterthought, “And I don’t know why they should.”





	Almost Like Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2009. Translated in 2018. Heavily inspired by Wolfgang Borchert's [The Three Dark Kings](https://robfysh.wordpress.com/2015/12/11/the-three-dark-kings/).

Peter’s steps are a dull sound in the room. He doesn’t try to lift his feet.  
  
Nobody’s here, in the Steinkamp-Arena, who could hear or drown them out. Drown them out with furious sounds of training, blows, curses. Dirty and dissolute, just like that. He knows it well from the old times. But it doesn’t follow him here. At least that’s what he wants. The status quo he wants to keep.  
  
Letting the past lie also means saying goodbye to old cronies and companions. And to forget the cheerful rustling of bills between his fingertips. Peter is good at forgetting if he truly wants to. His three daughters know all about it.  
  
And that’s why he’s alone here at Christmas and why his steps are a dull sound in the room.  
  
He doesn’t have another place he feels a real connection to. Essen is still a fascinating new mistress to him, but none he’d buy silk stockings for.  
  
The ground falls hollow against his feet.  
  
Peter is alone, but that’s barely relevant. Someone died and it’s his fault. Someone who wouldn’t have been alone tonight and only that’s important. Stupid sounds and stupid feet. Stupid everything.   
  
His stupid shadow follows after him. Peter rolls his eyes at it. Stupid everything.  
  
“What are you doing here?” the dark woman asks into the room.

Peter thinks, _Feeling bad for myself._ But he says, “I just wanted to leave.”  
  
The dark woman turns the big lights on and her eyes remain black.  
  
The color reminds him of the curls which Annette, without a doubt, inherited from him. His curls, which are now the color of sour milk. Whatever he touches, he spoils. How lucky that he never stayed with them, his girls.

“I hate the snow outside,” Peter says. “So terribly white.”  
  
(He thinks about his stupid feet stomping on it. Just like they stomp on everything.)  
  
The woman nods and her eyes become very quiet.  
  
“Go,” she says and then she adds thoughtfully,“The white’s just an illusion.”  
  
(She thinks about over twenty tainted years of marriage and how one fateful night can be one stain too many.)  
  
Peter notices her tired face. It’s the color of stomped-on snow. A beautiful face, actually. With little wrinkles and curves in all the right places. How a woman should look when you stay with her. Maybe so. Over the years. Exactly so.  
  
Peter smiles.  
  
“You have a place to go,” says the dark woman. “We don’t employ homeless people.”  
  
He shrugs his shoulders, doesn’t know any better. Doesn’t know where else to go.  
  
Essen is still a stranger to Peter. He may have a place to live here, yes, but none to rest. Perhaps he doesn’t deserve one, but he can look. With age, soon, there’s no more room for resignation. Forever forward or you fall back.  
  
“I’ll go, then,” he says anxiously and, again, his stupid feet start making stupid sounds. Stupid everything.  
  
“Today is Christmas,” the woman says. “Will you celebrate with someone?”  
  
He and his feet are almost out of the room. The question is unexpected. It distantly hurts. Somewhere under all that dirty snow, he’s stomped on over the years.  
  
“My daughters don’t care about me.”  
  
It’s so easy to tell her the truth. Even easier to add as an afterthought, “And I don’t know why they should.”  
  
She nods. “Same with my daughters. But my son does and his fiancé.”  
  
Peter doesn’t want to know what happened. He has enough familial baggage already. But he feels bad for Roschinski and Herr Steinkamp. Whatever happened.  
  
He doesn’t ask questions. He’s happy where he is. Wherever that’s supposed to be.  
  
There’s a moment of silence between them and Peter thinks of something.  
  
“I might have a request,” he says.  
  
  
  
Peter stares at the dirty snow at his feet. Completely still and cold, this snow. Then the door opens and a little stream of light falls outside. Makes the snow suddenly glitter golden.  
  
“Not too long,” Simone (now Simone) says quietly and steps towards him. “Or they’ll notice.”  
  
He nods and looks with longing at the little body in her arms. How he moves, how alive he is, this Alexander.  
  
Peter feels like a stranger. But that’s how it is with his family. Slowly, over the years, it’s become a matter of habit.  
  
The snow at his feet still remains golden.  
  
Simone’s eyes are black but sympathetic.  
  
“You could come inside. Into the kitchen. For a coffee,” she says. “No one would notice.”  
  
But Peter shakes his head and shuffles his stupid feet.

He feels that he must leave. That this is not his place to be. Golden and so full of light. Not the right spot for him.  
  
Dirty and dissolute, that’s what he knows. Because whatever he touches, spoils. Just like his curls of sour milk.  
  
“Thank you but no,” he says and turns his head to hide his shame.

“Goodbye, then,” Simone says, a little sadly, and smiles out of her beautiful face.  
  
Just like a face is supposed to be, with wrinkles and curves in all the right places. Because you stayed with her. Your wife. And your child.  
  
Peter turns and Alexander starts to cry.  
  
“I should get him inside”, Simone says with worry. “Where it’s warm.”  
  
Peter nods, mechanically. Lazy tiredness stirs in him.  
  
The door closes behind her and Peter starts making his way home.  
  
The night is almost colorless within his head because all he can think about is his grandchild’s little, sleeping face. It illuminates the frosty path to his apartment. Makes the snow at his stupid feet appear a little bit brighter than it is.  
  
Not golden, but brighter. And suddenly Peter doesn’t hate it just as much. The white, not just an illusion.  
  
When he goes to sleep, that night, he pulls his blanket up to his chin. Wiggles the toes of his stupid feet until they’re a little less cold.  
  
The boy will rest, he knows. Just like he deserves. Where it’s warm. With people who aren’t strangers. Who are there to stay.  
  
Perhaps, one day, Peter will be with them. When his stupid feet finally stop their shuffling. Maybe, soon, people could have a reason to care about him.  
  
There’s still somebody to be there for, he realizes. To be better for. Who could, maybe one day, even cry for him?  
  
A new chance to become less estranged.  
  
_That’s almost like Christmas_ , Peter thinks.


End file.
